by Paula Goldman
early, lingering in the morning. Clear
lake views, dropping leaves. I ache for summer’s
levity, the beach, the ocean of my youth,
the Atlantic City shoreline, with the waves
drumming beside me, running from lifeguard stand
to lifeguard stand, digging tunnels, building
drip castles with high turrets, to be washed
away as youth fades. Time passes: a grandson
in college, children over 50, graying,
a silver headed husband, riding his bike miles
to countryside hills, never complaining,
how I wish to hold all this in abeyance,
but it slips through my hands like grains
of sand poured into plastic pails, the sand
I shoveled to fortify barricades to hold
the ocean back. The tides, too strong, the water
colder; I grow older.
Paula Goldman grew up on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean. Although she is a Midwesterner now, the salt and sand remain part of her soul. She has been married 55 years with two grown children and three grandchildren across the country. She writes poetry to share her love of words, art, and life with her family, friends, and strangers.
Hawaii Pacific Review 